Disconnected
by Anansay
Summary: [GSR] - Sara leaves. Exposition piece.


Disconnected

by Anansay

September 8, 2003

The woman stood before the building. It loomed small and miniscule in her vision despite its ten floors and shiny opaque windows blocking the view from outside. It was a foreboding building upon first sight, its monolithic appearance dwarfing one's sense of self immediately. However, once one had been in it and saw for oneself the innards of the working world, it took on a more even tone, its mysteries having been divulged for what they were: tricks of light and sound and machinery. It was no longer an esoteric edifice in the middle of the city of lights. Now it was just a building, one among many. 

She would miss it terribly, she knew. It wasn't a decision one could make easily. Growth and maturity made decision making a longer chore with many more consequences to consider and weigh. This decision came about after long deep and intense talks with herself in the solitude of her apartment. 

The apartment couldn't really be called a 'home'. Sure it had a kitchen, furnished living room and bedroom, furnished with all of her belongings she'd chosen based on her likes. But it wasn't a home. It wasn't a place she went when she needed to feel connected and safe. It was a place she went to rest her body after yet another grueling shift in her 'real' home. But her 'real' home didn't have a comfortable bed and she couldn't exactly parade around semi-nude at work. So she went to the apartment to act out the behavior of one being at home. But it was all a facade and sooner than was needed, she was back at the lab, her 'real' home. 

But this 'home' at become tainted along the way. Now, there wasn't really a home to go to anymore. Her apartment hadn't changed, it was still a mass of interconnecting rooms parading as a home. It was work that had changed. It was no longer a comfortable homey place to be in. The atmosphere had become thick with tension and stale with a repetitive attempts at finding some kind of niche, again. 

It wasn't anything she put her finger on. It had happened over time, like erosion. It was an erosion of her home to what it was now, a mockery of its former attractiveness. The same people populated the halls, their same voices could be heard dissecting the latest mass of evidence in a case. The same raucous music could still be heard blaring from the lab at night - ominously quiet during the day, an oxymoron that still troubled those who worked there. There wasn't anything tangible, but it was different. Like day turning into night, the sun sets and then disappears, leaving behind a ghostly image of its light before that too disappears into the gloom creeping across the sky in the sun's wake. Suddenly, one found themselves surrounded by the darkness with no warning. And then the struggling began, the struggle to find a handhold, a grounding to secure oneself in the onslaught of the loss of light and direction. Blindness soon set in and the mindless exertion to create a new niche for oneself in this new and strange environment.

For the human race is a species of adaptation. Our ability to adapt far surpasses that of any other creature. So our first impulse is to adapt, to make of our situation what we can, by either staying and adapting, or by leaving and adapting to another strange, but maybe slightly familiar, environment. But we adapt. We twist and contort our bodies, our minds and even our souls to fit the latest mold thrust upon our existence. Sometimes this contorting can be pushed to a distortion of sorts, where one might wake up one morning and not even recognize the reflection staring back at them in the mirror. And then the realization sets in that the adaptation had taken on a life of its own and had caused a distortion of one's perception. When this realization happens, yet another adaptation takes place. We strive to re-adapt in a more wholesome and humane manner, attempting to retain what part of ourselves might have remained whole and working with it, feeding it, watering it and giving it some much needed light so that it could slowly re-encompass our entire being and we could, once again, be that whole person we knew we once were. 

All these thoughts went through the woman's head in an instant as she took one last look at the building that had been her home for the past three years, but then had changed, darkened and pushed her out. She needed to adapt. But adapting within the confines of that building was no longer possible. A change of scenery was required in order to find herself once again. With a heavy sigh, she dropped her hands from her hips and turned to her vehicle, which was sitting precariously low to the ground as it carried her vital belongings to her new home. She squeezed her lithe body behind the steering wheel, started the car and pulled out before her mind could conjure confabulations on how she could possibly stay and survive. Those mental conversations had already happened - numerous times - and the verdict was final: leaving was the only possible solution. Her time here, in Las Vegas was up and it was time to make a new niche somewhere else. 

~*~

"Where's Sara?" Grissom asked as he walked into the breakroom, folders under his arm and a small stack of papers in his hand. He put them all on the table and turned to his team. Only three sat around in the breakroom on various seating furnishings. 

"Haven't seen her," Catherine commented. 

"Nope. She's usually here before any of us. Not today," Nick said.

"That's not like her," Grissom said.

"Is she sick?" Warrick asked.

"If she is, she's probably really sick," Nick said. "I've seen her come in on days when she ought to be sleeping days' at a time."

Grissom listened to his team discussing Sara's health habits as his own supposings went through his head. Without a word, he spun around and disappeared down the hall. 

"Where's he going?" Nick asked. 

"Who knows," Warrick said. 

Catherine just watched him leave, a fretful feeling growing in her gut. 

~*~

Grissom sat at his desk staring at his phone. His body was immobile but his mind was hardly still; it ran through the many possibilities for Sara's tardiness, from the simple slept in/traffic possibilities to the more scarier possibilities: traffic accident, hospital, and the one thought he wouldn't allow to form coherency in his mind, the one thought that would seriously undermine all of his workings toward a stoic front of disinterest. 

The phone sat on his desk unmoving, noncommunicative. It didn't pull him in to using it, nor push him away with his fears. It was a tool, plain and simple. A tool he could use to contact his missing CSI and to put to rest the fears that were gnawing at the edges of his composure. 

He took it in his hand and dialed the number his fingers had dialed numerous times before, just not on a keypad. It rang once and then picked up. Just as he was about to speak, a voice started and his heart stopped. "The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please hang-up and try your call again. Thank you." The disembodied voice spoke with false cheerfulness that served only to punch home the awful truth. His hand replaced the receiver, letting it drop to the cradle. 

There was never anything that could prepare one for the sudden onslaught of having one's world ripped completely from beneath oneself and leaving one hanging and in limbo. Whatever direction one had been following was suddenly found wiped clean and the roads disappeared, leaving behind only flat, featureless lands where anything could happen, good or bad. Accompanying this dizzying disorientation to one's life was the suffocating feeling of having one's chest being pressed by boulders of immense size and weight, slowly squashing even the barest attempts at recuperation. No. One had to remain in this state of quasi-existence for a while at least. To know that no matter how sturdy and level an existence felt, it was precarious at best, a balancing act the could come tumbling down at any misstep or shift of balance. 

Grissom stared at the phone, his mind slipping in its attempt at understanding. He picked up the phone again and dialed her number again, paying special attention to each digit, making sure he didn't misdial. One ring and once again that sickeningly cheery voice informing him of his possible mistake. This time the phone didn't fall from his hand; it came crashing down with a resonating crack, his hand splayed on it, forcing it to its cradle, as though it might jump up and mock him with that voice over and over again. 

...disconnected... disconnected... disconnected...

That one word kept repeating itself in his head over and over again. One word. One simple word but one which had the power to rip everything to shreds, leaving it blowing in the wind of the desert, no form, no shape, nothing. Just strands of its former life. 

...disconnected...

Gone. Away. Moved. Left. 

she's gone, just like that, left, no note, nothing, just like that. no more Sara. No more, gone, disconnected, try again. can't try again. too late, she's gone, for good, forever, gone, disappeared, left, no good-byes, nothing, no note, nothing, alone, so alone, Sara, why? 

He pulled his eyes from the telephone and looked around himself. For all the turmoil sloshing inside him, the tranquility of his office was a mute deception. The same bottles; the same liquid; the same experiments; same shelves; same walls with the same plaques, degrees, and all that. Nothing had changed out there. His office was still the way it'd always been. His eyes roamed over everything, seeing them again for the first time, really seeing them. It was nothing. Nothing at all. Just bottles of preserved specimens to amuse a mind whose curiosity had strayed off the beaten path. It was all nothing. 

The panels of pierced bugs on display. They still looked the same as when they'd been alive. Maybe the natural sheen of their carapace was dulled somewhat, but nothing much changed. Only the lack of movement, the lack of life, of struggle told the true story. Pinned there to the board for Gil Grissom's curious amusement and study, they were nothing but a fake. In trying to keep them, he'd taken from the the one thing that made them what they had been. He'd taken their life. 

The bottles of preserved tiny animals, floating around aimlessly in the confines of the bottles, eyes open but seeing nothing, limbs outstretched but grabbing onto nothing, seeking nothing. The liquid was keeping their bodies intact, keeping at bay the natural decomposition. They still looked, for all intents and purposes, as though they might crawl out of the jars and creep back to their homes in the desert. But only upon closer inspection could it be noted that, in them too, there lacked that one vital element: life. Grissom's office was filled with lifeless organisms in various states of inert stasis. His one life-long yearning had transferred to the people around him. He'd tried to keep Sara with him, for as long as he could, but the only way he knew how to do that was to take from her that one element that had made her 'Sara'. He hadn't killed it, just held it in stasis - prisoner - so she'd have to stay. 

But she'd left anyway. Disconnected. 

She'd disconnected herself from him. Unplugged herself and left. 

~*~

The plane arrived on time, and her baggage was checked and passed through. The corridor leading to the plane seemed overly long and narrow as she walked on the lightly padded floor toward the machine that would take her away to a place where she might find herself again. She fought the urge to look behind her, fought the hope that there might be something after all, something that would keep her there. She knew there was nothing. And no one. 

No. 

That's what he'd said to her when she'd offered to take their relationship to another level, a level she'd thought was only the inevitable next step. She was wrong. It had been just a game with him. A game of innocent flirtation. But he'd been blind to her responses. And she'd followed his with reckless impulse. 

It didn't take long for her to realize that she wouldn't be able to work with him after that blow. Grissom was right, she was too emotional. In this case, she found it next to impossible to separate her wounded heart from her outer spunk. It broke through too many times and the strain of keeping up appearances was wearing thin. A safe, quiet place where she could give vent to everything that was roiling in her was the only solution. A place where no phone would ring telling her another crime needed her special attention, not when her special attention was slowly giving way to more impulsive reactions. Those constant interruptions were only making it worse for her to deal with it. No doorbells with surprise pizzas and visitors making her run to the bathroom and splash cold water on her face to hide the redness around her eyes.

Only director Cavallo had known of her intentions to leave. He'd promised to keep it to himself after she'd mentioned the confidentiality thing they'd both signed. No one could find out, she'd decided. Her friends would never have let her go without a fight, or at least an argument. The strength to deal with that kind of intervention just wasn't in her anymore. Her quick wit was slowing, heeded by the added weight of her out-of-control emotions. 

The plane felt empty although it was filled to capacity with travelers, mothers, children and business people. She found her seat easy enough, maneuvering her laden down body among those also not yet seated. After packing her bag into the overhead compartment, she allowed her body to fall into the window seat, her head leaning heavily against the back and her arms and long legs dangling from the seat like tentacles. 

No more movement needed. The plane would do that job, moving and taking her with it from the ground, through the clouds to move seamlessly through the air until it came to its destination. It would seem, during those two hours, as though the massive machine weren't moving at all, instead of at speeds a laymen could only imagine. The solitude of her seat among the timelessness of the clouds was lulling her into a sense of ethereality. Her decision began to take on different overtones, first of belonging to somebody else and then of the reasons behind it belonging to somebody else, like she'd just turned off the television after a particularly involving show and needing to come back to reality through that haze the mind creates when allowing that pseudo-reality to exist for a time. All her experiences, all the laughs and the tears, the fears and the bravado, it all began to feel quixotic. 

Too soon, the captain's voice crackled from the radio informing of their impending approach into California. It was done. She was gone. 

~*~

Grissom sat in his condominium, surrounded by everything that he thought was him, all tucked neatly away in this little box he liked to call his home: his butterfly collection, his exotic insect collection, his classical music collection along with a sprinkling of some more obtuse stuff like Pink Floyd and King Crimson. He liked to think of himself as well-versed in the arts as well as the sciences. But if truth be told, it was all merely two-dimensional knowledge. He enjoyed the creations of other people. He enjoyed discovering facts and making them public as an scientist and an entomologist. 

He surrounded himself with other people's things, and facts about everything else, but him. One person's song can only resonate with another at such vibrations, never to be fully harmonized. There was still that tiny bit of off-kilter tone that told people there was a bit more to discover. The facts that he discovered only showed a portion of his interests. Nothing more about Gil Grissom was known to anybody. 

One can only learn so much from another by watching and observing how they live their life. But there was also the listening aspect and not just listening in on conversations, but by having them oneself. Through this dialogue, more facets are cleared of their cobwebs exposing more and more of the person behind the facade. But Gil Grissom hardly spoke to people in that vein. There was a distance around him laden with a solidity that discouraged entry and thus knowledge of him. He was as much of an enigma to those who worked with him as to those who purported to be his friends. There were no in-depth conversations late at night over a nice dark rich bourbon. When Gil Grissom left work, he disappeared into the void that was his life, and no one was allowed entry. The door closed and locked firmly behind him until he was ready to venture forth again to work on yet another case. 

But people will only yearn for a time to know someone before it peters away from lack of reciprocity. They blink once, offer a sad smile, turn around and disappear into their own life, followed by their friends. But the lab, whether at work or at home, had always proved to be a safe haven when that happened. Grissom would immerse himself totally in his work, pushing his own insecurities and the voices that accompanied it to the backburner. He ignored them. Closed his ears to them. And was thus denied his hearing when he finally chose to hear. His wish sought was now granted: he wouldn't have to hear the seemingly mindless chatter of his coworkers as they rehashed their interesting days and life. Forty-seven years old and he was finally getting what he wanted. He'd pushed everyone away and now they were finally leaving. He'd blocked out people's attempts at idle conversation, preferring instead the solitude and silence of the lab. And now he was alone and going deaf. 

The glass of bourbon shook slightly in his hand as these thoughts came to him from the vacuum of his life. It was funny how something could be in front of one's face for such a long time, but only recognized when gone, and then missed. 

Shift had passed as smoothly as it could with Sara's absence coming out and hitting them full in the face. Cavallo had approached them in the breakroom informing them of this fact and that a replacement was due to come in at the beginning of the next week. This they took in stride, at least on the surface. Inside, a shattering had happened and they were struggling to put themselves back together with this new information, and how it would fit in with what they knew. Short staffed, they managed to work around it and end with a small feeling of accomplishment, much as before but different now. 

Sara's cellphone had been disconnected as well, her pager shut off in Cavallo's office for the next criminalist to take her place. Dialing her number and getting a different name and voice would take some adjusting but money in the budget for a new number was just not feasible. A minor nuisance they'd have to get over in their life. 

Grissom took another long gulp of the stinging amber liquid and let it burn its way to his stomach to be added to the other three glasses of bourbon already imbibed. When the room began to move of its own accord, and his body was feeling not quite his own, he decided he'd poisoned himself enough for one night and leaned forward to lift his body from the couch. And that's when it hit, the extreme sense of disorientation just preceding the complete evacuation of the stomach. He leaned back against the couch, head pressing into the cushion. He gulped heavily a few times, forcing the bile back down and breathing deeply. It wasn't working. With a lurch he'd never thought possible of himself, he heaved himself from the couch and stumbled as quickly as he could to his bathroom, and just narrowly missed the toilet bowl before his stomach took over and released everything. 

The coolness of the porcelain felt good on his heated skin and he lay his head down, closing his eyes in bliss. His stomach gave a few more painful spasms of warning but nothing more came up. It was settled: his stomach did not like what he'd done to it. He breathed hard and deep, his body shaking from the exertion. The beginnings of the horrible after-feeling of total body surrender were slowly creeping into his conscious and he struggled to his feet and shuffled to his bedroom. And then the room began to spin in earnest and to slowly start creeping in at the edges of his vision. He swayed on his feet, trying to rid himself of his clothes. The light of the lamp was the last thing he saw before the silence and the darkness engulfed him completely. 

~*~

The ride to Tamales Bay by bus wasn't as quiet or smooth as the plane. Here there was the passing landscape to occupy the thoughts and keep them more grounded. On this trip there was a child who obviously hated traveling and the required stillness of body with a vengeance. Everybody on the bus soon became aware of his extreme dislike. Sara tried to ignore the shouts and screams and threats of both mother and child but the noise bounced off the walls and hit her anyway. She didn't want to be one those people who would toss "looks" to the mother and make her feel even more worthless, so she kept her face pressed against the window, wincing every now and then as a the child's voice hit a particularly strong note. 

Soon enough, Sara began to recognize certain landmarks and the old feeling of coming home grew in her. The bus stopped at gas station and she and a few others got off the bus to wait for their respective rides. The sun was hot overhead as it passed its zenith and headed west. Sara sat on her suitcase and took a bottle of water from her coat. Even by the ocean, the heat was as drying as in Las Vegas. Her mind was taken back to cases where the desert had been a key factor and images, sounds and feelings came with that memory. She closed her eyes and let them pass by, holding onto nothing, until they were gone and she was left, once again, by the side of a road, sitting on a suitcase, with a few other people. 

"Got a smoke?" someone asked behind her. 

She turned around and caught the odour of one who'd been traveling for some time. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose and responded, "No, sorry. I don't smoke." Anymore, she almost added. And then another memory assailed her. One in which a rather heated and personal conversation took place between her and Grissom regarding her smoking. 

"You have to stop that, Sara," he said.

"Why?" she asked, taking another drag and blowing the smoke above their heads. She looked him straight in the eye waiting for his response. 

He made a face and looked away. 

They were sitting in the park in San Francisco, in between classes. Lectures for her to listen, and ones for him to give, though not at the same time. 

"Because it's not healthy. And besides..."

"...besides what?"

"It smells bad."

"I smell bad?"

"Well.... yeah, you do. I know when you've just had a smoke, Sara. I can smell it on your clothes. And I can smell it on my couch after you leave." 

"Then I won't go over anymore." She took another puff.

Grissom sighed. "Sara... that's not what I meant. I can handle the smell, I just spray some stuff. I just... I just wanted you to know -"

"-that you disapprove."

Grissom winced. He recognized her tone; it was the one she used when she was arguing her opinion, no matter how personal. "Yeah."

"Fine. You've made your opinion known. But hear this, Gil. I can't just quit you know." She tossed the butt away. It smoked a bit in the grass before the whiff strayed up into the air and dispersed. 

"I know. It's an addiction. But you gotta try."

"Why should I? It's my body."

"Because I'm asking you to...?" Grissom hoped she could understand that he was merely bringing up the subject again because he cared about her, probably more than he ought to. 

" 'Because you're asking me to.' And that should mean what to me?"

Grissom turned to her and looked at her straight in the eye. "Because I care about you, Sara Sidle. You'll make one hell of a criminalist one day and I want you to live long enough to really enjoy it." 

She returned his stare with a bold one of her own. "And is that all?" Her voice came out lower than she'd expected, with a bit more gruff than she'd liked. She couldn't deny it, she was attracted to this man, but she had yet to figure out his own reason for seeking out her company, especially during off hours. All they ever did was discuss what she'd learned that day, and what his lectures were about - the ones she didn't attend. All of the conversations had stayed within that safety net, never venturing outside. But there was something else there, she was sure of it, and was just waiting for him to do something about it. There was a sense of perpetual awareness with him, as though he might just bolt at the first sign of anything out of the ordinary, anything that ventured beyond that safe line. 

This time he met her bold look with a gulping one of his own. His lips quivered slightly as he fought the words that wanted to come out. Whenever she looked at him like that, it had always made him feel just that side of unbalanced. "I care about you."

Sara harumphed. "You keep saying that, Gil,"she said, pulling her gaze from his and staring straight ahead. 

Their conversations had been that way from the beginning, with her trying to initiate something and him always pulling back at the last minute. It was frustrating to say the least. 

A car came down the road, driving dust up behind it. It was the same old battered blue pickup truck that she remembered from the last time she'd come home. It pulled to screeching stop in front of Sara, who'd shielded her eyes from the sandy onslaught. 

"Hey Baby!" a falsetto voice called out from the driver's seat. 

Sara looked up and smiled, the gap in her teeth showing unabashedly for the few people who'd accepted it comment-free. "Hey Ernie!" she said, gathering her suitcase and coat and going around to the passenger door. 

"How many times to I have to tell you to call me 'Dad'?"

Sara stared at him from her seat, and smiled. "I'll call you 'Dad' when you start calling me 'daughter'. You call me by my name, I call you by your name. We've had this discussion before, Ernie. Don't ya think it's time to let it rest? I'm thirty-two years old, I don't think I'm gonna change now." She leaned over and wrapped her arms around the gaunt man, holding him tightly to her and burying her head in his neck. "Hmm, you still smell the same, Ernie. Still have that garden?"

He pulled back and eyed her with squinting eyes. "What garden?"

Sara nodded her head. "Right. 'what garden?', of course." 

"Hey, little girl," he said, pulling onto the road again and spinning the groaning truck around and heading back the way he'd come. "I don't do that anymore. At least, not as much."

"Once a smoker, always a smoker?"

Ernie made a sound in his throat but said nothing. Sara knew what her parents did, beyond the Bed and Breakfast. She'd known since she was still one digit in years. At first it was nothing that her parents smoked weed, but in time it became something to be ashamed off especially in light of the newly discovered information of their political activist past in the flowery times of the 60's. It'd been a lot to digest, especially for a daughter of logic whose investigative skills far surpassed those of her peers her age. In time, she came to accept that it was merely something her parents chose to do and it made them no worse and no better than any other parent. There was more laxness in the rules department but there was still plenty of love to go around. There had been some discussion when she'd quit school and joined the police bureau and then went on to become a criminalist, part of the group of people that her parents had come to see as merely a small but powerful totalitarian regime bent on eradicating society of all the 'ne-er do wells', such as Ernie and Martha Sidle. In time, once again, they'd warmed to their daughter's choice, in part because it made her happy. 

"Hardly," he continued the conversation. "I can quit," he announced with an air of self-assuredness that quickly began to shrink under his daughter's penetrating gaze. "I can!"

"Right, Ernie. Sure thing."

"Hey, you quit smoking. So can I."

"That's because I wanted to."

"Oh ho! So you think I don't want to?"

She turned to him. "Do you?"

"Hell no!" 

Sara smiled and said nothing. 

The rest of the ride was in companionable silence as Sara let her mind wander back to her childhood and the fun of times long gone. 

~*~

Grissom awoke with one thought paramount in his mind. I have to find Sara. 

He'd been dreaming. Sara had never left, indeed there hadn't even been a thought that way. Instead, he had accepted her diner invitation and saw what could happen. From there on, it'd been all bliss and rosy. That feeling followed him from the dream into wakefulness, where it faded away to reality causing that one thought to be born. I have to find Sara. 

He went to sit up only to come crashing back down to his bed, moaning and grabbing his head with both hands. The pounding was excruciating, like it was trying to force his eyeballs from his head. When he tried to swallow, the pastiness in his mouth made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth a moment before finally letting go. He moaned and turned onto his side, moving very slowly so as not to disturb the heavy-metal demon that had obviously decided to take up residence in his skull. He tried to think around the pain, to think of where he'd put the headache medicine the last time. In the living room? In the bathroom? In his bedroom? 

He reached over and fumbled with the drawer, fighting to get it open and search around with shaking hands for anything that resembled a bottle. Nothing. He moaned again when he realized he'd have to get up. Well, served him right getting hammered without considering the consequences and planning for them. He stumbled back to the bathroom and searched blindly - the light in his bathroom would surely have killed him on the spot - and came up with nothing. He cracked his head against the mirror as the pain gave a sudden thud in his forehead. He turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water on his face, bringing wakefulness to the absolute forefront of awareness. He shuddered, groaned and walked into the living room, wincing at the light he neglected to turn off the previous night. 

And there, sitting on the end table, was his bottle of medicine; its white plainness mocking his struggles with its visual obviousness. He grabbed it with a rough hand and grabbed some water from a bottle in his fridge and downed two pills. Then he went back to his couch and fell on it, his head landing in the soft cushions of the back. His eyes closed and he willed his body to relax and waited for the pills to start working. 

After a while most of the pain had been dimmed to a dull throbbing and Grissom was able to move without wanting to upchuck his stomach again. It'd been a while since he'd felt this way, since he'd gotten so drunk. It wasn't a feeling he missed and a part of him couldn't quite grasp how he'd gotten to this point. Drinking wasn't something he did often and when he did drink it certainly wasn't to the point of complete physical shut-down like this. This was definitely out of character for him and he struggled to understand what had propelled him to drink. There was a curious feeling of being disconnected from his body as though someone had taken over and had fun while he'd been out. Disconnected. 

Disconnected. 

Sara's gone. I have to find Sara. Sara's gone. disconnected. gone. she left. yesterday. gone. I have to find her. she's gone. why. disconnected, she had her phone disconnected, she left. oh god Sara left. 

Grissom groaned and rolled over to curl his body on the couch, wrapping his arms around his legs and tucking his head to his knees. The hardness felt good on his head, like a wall. A wall, he'd been a wall, her head hurt, like his, from trying to get past his wall. He banged his head against his knees and felt the resounding pressure vibrate to the back of his skull in waves of dizzying pain. I have to find Sara. I have to find her. I have to tell her. Why did she leave? Why didn't she just tell me. 

'Cause she tried to, idiot!

Grissom opened his eyes and looked around him. He was alone in his living room. There was no one else around. 

Hey, you listening to me?

"Who's there?"

Hel-LO! I'm here. In you, mister all-mighty intelligent one! 

Grissom grabbed the bottle and checked the label. It wasn't a narcotic. It didn't cause hallucinations. Then...

Yo! 

...what?... he thought, his mental voice sounding tentative to his mental ears. 

Like I said, she tried to tell you, Gilly-boy. Remember? Dinner? And what did you say?

I said no. 

That's right. She did tell you. Maybe not in the exact words like: "Hey, Gil, I want you. Now." But she did tell you. And you pushed her away. So what did she do in response?

She left.

Bingo! She left. And now you sit here, with your head on your legs wondering what the HELL happened? Open your eyes man! It was all there right in front of you! You just didn't want to see it. 

Oh god...

Hey, now. No sense in bringing god into this. He ain't gonna do anything. You want her, you have to go and get her. And this time, you gotta tell her the truth. Or live without her. 

I can't live without her. 

You did for all this time.

No. Not really. She was there. 

But at a distance. Where you wanted her. Kept her on a leash; when she strayed too far, you pulled in. When she got too close, you pushed her away. But only as far as your leash allowed her to go, and no further. And now, she's broken that leash. She left. She left you. 

Oh god...

Hey! What did I say! No god in this. This is all human stuff. God ain't gonna bring her back. YOU gotta do that, Gil-ma-man. 

I gotta bring her back. 

No... you gotta TELL her and then she'll make the choice of whether to come back or not.

But where is she?

I don't know. 

What do you mean you don't know?

I'm part you, remember? I only know what you know. 

But all that stuff you said...

Is all in you, Gil. All you had to do was listen. Everything you ever want to know is in you. You just gotta listen. 

Grissom uncurled his body and stretched to a sitting position, looking around himself. I have to find her. Where would she go? San Francisco? To her old job? Home? 

He opened a drawer in the end table and pulled out an address book. Flipping through the pages, his fingers found a number and he dialed it. It rang three times and then a voice came on. 

"Jack Masters," said the curt voice. 

"Jack? It's Grissom."

A moment of silence. "Grissom? Oh yeah! From Vegas! How's it going? What can I do for you?"

Grissom remembered him as a someone who left pleasantries far behind him where business was concerned. And Grissom had called him at work. "Jack, listen. Has Sara Sidle gotten in touch with you recently?"

"Sidle? Sara Sidle? That girl you took from me three years ago? No. Why?"

Grissom sighed. "Okay. No reason. Thanks."

Before he could hang up the phone, Jack's voice came back. "Hey, what's going on? You lose her?"

He stared in front of him, pondering that particular phrasing. Lose her? "I didn't lose her. I... I just... can't find her." 

"Can't find her?! What's that supposed to mean?"

Grissom sighed again. "It's nothing Jack, really. She just... she got upset and didn't come into work yesterday. I thought maybe... maybe she was thinking of going back to her old job."

"After working for you?! Yeah, right, Gil. Try again."

"Thanks Jack. I'm sure everything's fine. Bye." He hung up before the man could probe any deeper. 

The book's pages flipped again and Grissom's finger another number and dialed it. Five rings later and a different voice came on. A female voice. "Good afternoon, SeaSide Bed and Breakfast." 

"Mrs. Sidle?" 

"Yes. Who is this?" she said, her voice still pleasant but with an undertone of suspicion creeping in. 

"It's Gil Grissom, ma'am. From Vegas."

Another moment of silence as yet another person tried to place him. "Dr. Grissom, yes, I remember you." And now a coldness was creeping in to chill the pleasantness. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, uh, I was just wondering if Sara might have contacted you recently, in the past few weeks."

"Why?"

Grissom fought for a good-sounding reason. "Just curious." He smacked himself in the head for that small jaunt into idiocy. He could always blame the medication later on. 

Mrs. Sidle was quiet for a long moment. "Dr. Grissom, Sara's here. She arrived this morning." 

Grissom sat up, his head arguing deafeningly at the sudden movement. He winced. "She did?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Good. Okay. I'm, uh, glad she's there." 

"Dr. Grissom, I don't know what happened to bring my daughter back here like this, but if you've done anything to hurt her... I swear to god..."

"I haven't hurt her, Mrs. Sidle." It was partly true, he knew. "We just... argued." 

"You argued. Sara doesn't run away from arguments, Dr. Grissom. She's stronger than that. She stays until it's resolved."

Then maybe it was already resolved. Grissom shut his eyes to stop the mounting fear. "Mrs. Sidle, would I be able to come up and see Sara?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Dr. Grissom."

"Why?"

"If Sara came here, then it's because she needs to be here, away from there, and from the people there. Including you."

"I'd like to talk to Sara. Can she come to the phone?"

"Listen, if Sara wanted to talk to you, she'd call you, okay? If she doesn't call you, you know what that means." And the phone went dead in his hand. 

Well, at least he knew where Sara was and didn't have to worry about that anymore. 

~*~

"Who was that?" Sara asked, rounding the corner into the lobby. Her mother had just replaced the phone on its cradle.

Martha looked up at her only daughter with eyes that mirrored a war inside her soul: to be a mother to her daughter in the traditional sense, or be the mother she'd always been to her daughter. As much a free spirit as ever, her only child's happiness was paramount and if there was anything Martha could do to guarantee it, she would, including biting her comments on her daughter's choice in careers. "Dr. Grissom," she said in a level tone. 

Sara stopped walking. "Grissom?"

"Yes, that boss of yours. Now, are you going to tell me what happened?" Martha said, leaning on the counter with her elbows. 

Sara sighed. "It's nothing, Mom." 

"Now it's 'Mom'? Now I know something happened. You don't call me 'mom' unless something bad happened." She came around the desk and stood by Sara. "What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything."

"Well, he must have done something to make you run off like you did."

"He didn't do anything. That's the problem," Sara said as she turned on her heel and stalked from the lobby. 

Martha watched her leave, sighed and shook her head. For such easy going people as she and Ernie, it was always a wonder how they'd managed to produce such a critical child as Sara. 

Sara sat on her old bed in a room that seemed like it had shrunk since she'd last been there. She'd been lucky her parents hadn't forced that gaudy pink-girly-frilly stuff on her. Her room comprised of a bed low to the ground, a dresser and a bookshelf that now held knick-knacks in the place of the books she had accumulated over her high school years. The walls bore faint rectangular imprints of her physics posters she'd assembled over time. No posters of the latest hottest boys for her. It was the periodic table of elements, and the various other posters depicting several areas of her physics aspirations. 

Now the room seemed empty and cold and distant, like a shell of her former self; but the memories were still there, and the smells that could induce those memories to perfect clarity behind closed eyes. But it wasn't memories of her room that ran amuck through her mind; it was memories of a more recent past. Grissom had called here. He'd found her and called. Why? Her mind kept going over and over the possibilities for such an occurrence, and being a scientist it was imagined in ways of logic and facts. 

The lab needs you. He'd said those words before, with that smug look on his face as though he'd just hit the mail perfectly on the head to make her want to stay. The bile that had risen in her throat was enough to choke her, but she'd put on a smile, nodded her head and left his office, anxious to be as far away from that self-satisfied look as possible. 

And then the plant had come. Delivered to her work place; a sign of a battle relinquished, even though the war still waged on. It was cute at the time and had managed to soothe her sore spirits into another bout of emotional complacency. 

Many little things that in the end, added up to nothing in particular, just harmless flirting. Or was it? She'd tried to find out and had received an outright denial. No. One word, one syllable, two letters and her world had shattered, leaving in its wake a tumultuous emotional upheaval. Two explosions in one day: first the lab, and then her heart. 

And now here she was, back at home, back in her mother's arms, crying like a child with a scraped knee, only this time it was a scraped heart, wounded and bleeding and stinging like it would never end. Staying at work after that awful day had been like ripping the scab off daily, exposing the wound to even more punishment and delaying its healing. The scab needed to be left on; she needed to leave. So she had. 

She spied her old phone on her night stand. It was an ancient relic, shiny black with a cord long untwisted from nights spent yakking with her friends from the science club at school. It's rotary dial made a small smile from her pursed lips as she remembered her inability to keep her nails long and never getting a boyfriend and at one point blaming her parents for never buying a newer model with push buttons and thus disallowing her the natural, regular opportunities to go out and have fun. She could smile now realizing 'going out' had never been an idea she'd ever approached with any sort of enthusiasm. Staying home and conducting experiments in her room had been plenty of fun for her at that time. 

The obsolescence of the phone and its prior social implications humoured her when she thought about using it to return Grissom's call. Like that phone could ever allow her to - finally - acquire a date for the dance this friday, if there even was one. 

She picked up and cradled the bulky head piece between her shoulders and started dialing. The first digit went around slow. The second digit took a bit longer. She watched the dial return to its position, waiting for the next digit to be dialed in. She listened to the endless ticking as it registered with the phone company. Eleven turns later and an endless amount of ticking in her ears and there was a ringing on the other end. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited for someone to pick up. 

Five rings later she was about to hang up when the sixth ringing stopped mid-ring. "Hello?" came a wary voice, and Sara had to smile when she realized her parents' phone number wouldn't register on his phone. 

"Hey," she said, their universal word of acknowledgment. 

"Sara?" His shocked almost breathless utterance of her name brought a small smile to her lips. Hearing him say her name did that to her. 

"Yeah, it's me." She unconsciously mimicked her previous greeting of three years ago, this time minus the cheefulness. She heard Grissom sigh into the phone. When he didn't say anything more, she closed her eyes and demanded that her body quell its increasing panicked feeling. "You called?" 

"Uh, yeah. You... didn't come it to work yesterday, and your phone," she heard him swallow hard. "...said it'd been disconnected. And then Cavallo came by and..." he stopped talking and Sara realized she'd just heard something from Grissom she'd never thought she'd hear ever in her life, even if they had gotten together. Grissom was overcome with emotion. 

She let out a long sigh and bit her lip. Wasn't it always like that? The days after such a big decision and the doubts start creeping in to shadow the sense of accomplishment. Maybe if she'd stayed... Maybe if she'd given him a second chance... A second? Not a second, not even a tenth. She'd lost count so long ago. It'd been time for her to move on and quit waiting for a miracle to happen. And this wasn't the miracle. "I quit," she said, keeping her voice low and without emotion. She wondered if he heard the tremble, though. 

"I know," he said, his voice equally soft. Was that a tremble? Couldn't be. 

"So why did you call?"

The silence on the other end lasted for so long Sara began to wonder if he'd hung up. Then he spoke. "I guess... I just wanted to hear you say it, seeing as you just... disappeared, no word, no goodbye, nothing."

The little guilt monsters grew in numbers in Sara's mind. "Why bother? The others would have been sad and you..." the words wouldn't come. 

"And I what?"

"What would you have done, Grissom?" The silence on the other end spoke more than words could have expressed. "That's what I thought. Goodbye, Grissom." Before she could hang up, his voice came loud. "What?"

"Is there anything I can do?"

"For what?"

"For you to come back."

Sara sighed. "No Grissom. There's nothing. It's time for me to move on. Nice timing on your part, that you would ask that question now, though. Real smooth."

"Sara..."

"Don't 'Sara' me. I'm tired of hearing it. I need to move on, Grissom. My career can only go so far in Vegas."

"This is about your career?"

"Hasn't it always been?"

"If it's about your career, I can give you a letter of recommendation."

"Saying what?"

" 'saying what' what do you mean, saying what? You're one of my best CSIs. Your crime-solve rate is one of the highest. That's what."

"Correction, Grissom. I was one of your best CSIs."

She heard him sigh. "Was, fine. Play semantics then."

"Not semantics; truth. I'm not working for you anymore, therefore I'm not your CSI anymore."

"Jeez, Sara. You could have at least told me. You owe me that much, as your supervisor!"

"I owe you nothing, Grissom. Nothing at all."

"How so?"

"How so? We were work partners, that's it. You signed my paycheques. But only if Cavallo approved. So I went straight to him, knowing I'd get an earful from you - you not being able to handle change much at all -"

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"You can't handle change, Grissom. Face it. You would have gotten angry, defensive, pleading. And then you would have sent me another plant. I don't need plants, Grissom. I kill plants. I don't do good with them. That plant you gave me? Died in a week. Plants don't do anything for me, Grissom. The lab doesn't need me; there are plenty of perfectly good CSIs out there looking for a job. As good as me if not better. Maybe you need me, but you'll never say that now, would you? Noooo, that would be admitting to such defect or something. 'The Great Gil Grissom Needs Someone'. Never. So you hide behind words like 'the lab needs you'. Fuck off, Grissom. I don't need you, I don't want you. Go away. I did."

If the silence of before spoke volumes, this one spoke of nothing but wordless shock. Sara held the phone to her ear, waiting if he might say something and when he didn't, she hung up. 

With the connection broken, the phone back on its cradle, a mooring had come loose and now she felt as though she were floating away, into a fog of confusion and worry. Never before had she been so angry and forthright with him. A giant verbal shove in the chest and she could just picture him holding the dead phone in his hands and staring at it, not comprehending. It pained her to think of how much pain she might have caused him, then stopped that thought mid-way. She could only have hurt him if he felt anything for her. He didn't and therefore her leaving shouldn't have hurt him at all.

Then why call her? Why seek her out at her parents'? Why not just accept that she was gone, bid good riddance and go on his merry way? But he hadn't. He'd called. And he'd sounded so... confused. 

She hit her bed, making the springs squeak in protest, and then threw herself backward on it, twisting to land on her stomach, head in arms. Like an ostrich burying his head in the sand, Sara just wanted to hide to get away from the conflicting emotions in her heart. Mixed in with them was anger: anger that he'd choose this time to reach out; to show some kind of emotion toward her. The anger gave way to hatred; she hated him. It was a stone in her that grew and hardened her resolve to stay away, stay away from Grissom and his games of the mind and heart. They weren't needed in her life. 

~*~

Once again, Grissom found himself sitting on his couch, staring into space, his mouth hanging open and no thoughts in his head. A drink seemed mighty fine at that point in time. He stared at his cabinet but fought down the urge, his stomach reminding him of the previous night's bingeing excursion. Go away. I did. What did that mean? He went over and over in his mind the conversation and it still made no sense to him. They seemed to have jumped from subject to subject without actually resolving the previous one. It was maddening to say the least. It was too easy for her to hang up on him, way too easy. They needed to discuss this face to face. Then an idea struck him. A preposterous idea to say the least, but one that would help them get it out in the open at least, and not hide beyond phones and hang-ups. He'd go see her. He'd stand before her and demand that she treat him civilly. 

He looked at his watch and decided that going in four hours early wasn't really anything unusual. Her personal files were at the office and the need to see them would eventually benefit the department, hence his fiscal reasoning for going in, four hours early. 

~*~

He arrived in California 48 hours after Sara had. Instead of a bus, he chartered a car and drove north to where the bed and breakfast owned by Sara's parents was located. He pulled up, an hour and half later, into a driveway well manicured with wild flowers growing on either side and a rather chaotic yet organized appearance around the well-maintained fisherman's house, that now housed five rooms for rent and a huge kitchen for feeding the tenants. The grounds had been transformed into a garden with huge trees lending shade to benches scattered around. It was a beautiful place and Grissom wondered how Sara could ever have left this place for a dingy city like Vegas, or San Francisco. This was definitely better on the eyes and the ears. 

He parked in what he hoped was a parking lot - it held four other cars in a neat row - and walked up the steps onto the covered balcony. More benches and pots of plants adorned the entranceway and gave the feeling of walking into another era, one of calm and bounty, where crime was a rare occurrence if any. He could feel his shoulders already relaxing, despite his reason for coming here. 

The lobby greeted him with its dark paneling causing him to squint until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Stairs rose up and turned on his right and at the base was an old bent-wood coat rack; he could just picture the jacket and hat that adorned it in years' past. A long hallway stretched out before him to two wood french doors. In the middle and tucked neatly against the wall was a small desk with a lamp and an open book on it. No one sat behind it so he took the opportunity to examine up close the many framed photographs hanging on the wall. 

He came to one that made him stop and lean in for a closer look. In the photo stood a young girl, maybe seven or eight, hair windblown around her face, eyes twinkling wildly - and a gap toothed smile. She held in her hands what Grissom could only guess was her latest experiment: a potato with wires coming out of it, a battery and a light bulb. And Grissom was reminded of the pickle. He stared at the picture hard, memorizing every detail. Her happiness practically jumped out at him and he remembered fondly her free laugh from so long ago, in the cafe, late at night. It contrasted so greatly with the way she was now, his heart gave a painful lurch. 

A noise brought his attention back to the hallway and there stood a petite woman with deep brown eyes her peppered brown hair in a loose clip at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup and her skin bore the clues of a life lived outside in the fresh air. Her smile, though large was reserved and didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Can I help you?" she asked and her voice was soft yet hard and Grissom had the distinct impression that when this woman was angry, she'd yell with a clear and distinct voice. Much like Sara.

"I'm looking for Sara Sidle," he said inwardly wincing at what might come in return. 

Her face jerked backward in shock, her smile faded and her eyes became a mother's dark and cold piercing glare. "You're Dr. Grissom."

"Yes."

The woman continued staring at him, her eyes unflinching in their appraisal. Grissom was beginning to feel uncomfortable under such a scrutiny but fought to keep her eyes on hers and as soft as he could make them. 

"What are you going here?"

"I came to see Sara."

"Why?"

"Because we need to talk."

Martha stared at him, her cold eyes playing with the possibilities of his presence. "The way I hear it, you had your chance."

"I'm here to ask for another one."

"And why should she give you one?"

Grissom understood what this was about. He'd have to get through the mother to get to the daughter; a mother protecting her child. 

"I... I don't know." He took a step forward. "All I know Mrs. Sidle is that your daughter means more to me than anyone else." At her scoffing he continued, "and not just because she's a damn good CSI." He dropped his head and took a deep breath. "I just need to talk to her, Mrs. Sidle. Please." 

"I'll see if she's available," the woman said simply and disappeared behind the double doors. 

Grissom was left alone once again. He listened carefully, but all he could hear were the faint creaks of the house, the clinks of pans banging together. Nothing that told him anything of what might be happening behind closed doors. His eyes were drawn again to the photos on the walls. What was it about photographs that stirred the curiosity? Like tangible glimpses into a past, into another person's memories and our desires to know those people as much as possible. There were several other photographs depicting the same jubilant little girl showcasing her latest experiments. It only served to cement Grissom's idea of Sara as a die-hard workaholic: she'd been born that way. 

A noise louder and more distinct caught his attention and he stood up straight and turned around. Coming down the stairs, taking one step at a time in a cautious manner was Sara, eyes peeled on Grissom as though she were his prey and trying to find a way of not getting caught. 

"Grissom," she said.

Grissom could only stare up at her. Encased in tight, low-slung jeans and a fuchsia shirt reminiscent of the sixties with its tie around the neck and gathers around the arms, her hair loose and curly and just a touch of makeup on her face, she looked more fresh and alive then he could ever remember her. It was only when she got closer that he saw the redness of her eyes and the darkness beneath them. He wondered if those same bags had been there when she was in Vegas. 

She stopped in front of him and stood proud and tall, chin jutted forward and arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her eyes bore into his, demanding answers. 

"Sara..." he heard himself say just beneath his breath. Her name was like ambrosia on his lips. It made him feel light and airy and yet full to the brim of... love? It was a name he'd said over and over in his dreams, waking to find it on his lips. It was a name that embodied everything for him. A name he could never tire of repeating. 

"What are you doing here?" Her firm tone broke his reverie and he blinked. 

"Uh... the phone just wasn't doing it."

"Wasn't doing what?"

"You hung up on me."

"Yeah, and?"

"We need to talk about this."

"No we don't."

"Why not?"

"You've stated your position and then backed it up with proof. Proof that I should have seen for myself, but I chose not to." 

"Sara, what are you talking about?"

"Oh god Grissom! Just stop it!" she said, swinging her arms in the air and pinning him with a glare.

Grissom stared at her and blinked. "What?"

Sara sighed. "After all this time and you still don't get it? It's not just me, you know."

He could only stare at her, his mind not forthcoming with any words. 

"Christ, all this time and you still think it's only me. Look, I'm sorry if I make you feel uncomfortable, Grissom, but I was under the impression that it was a two-way attraction. You weren't doing anything so I did, thinking you'd just follow along like it was natural, like you were waiting for me to make the first move." Her voice dropped. "I never realized it was just a game to you. Just a way for you to get your kicks at work without having to face the consequences."

"Sara, can we continue this conversation some place else?"

"Why?"

"Because it's rather private."

"Fine." Sara stalked past him and flung the door open so hard it hit the wall with a sharp crack. Grissom flinched but followed behind her. 

She led them around the house and into a patch of trees surrounding a bare area where a few benches were scattered. Sara got to the middle of the patch and turned around, arms across her chest, eyes cold and hard. And said nothing.

Grissom fought the urge to shuffle on his feet, allowing his mind to do the invisible shuffling for him and keeping his nervousness hidden. "You didn't tell me." His words came with an edge to the softness, gently accusing. 

"I didn't want to." Sara answered as softly, their voices staying within the confines of the trees, sounding loud to them. 

"Why?"

"It wouldn't have mattered."

"You think I don't care."

"I know you don't care."

"But I do." 

"You don't. I don't feel it."

Grissom took a step forward. "But I do, Sara."

Sara took a step back and sat on a bench. She shook her head. "No, you don't."

Grissom took a few more tentative steps. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, the words shaking from his mouth. 

Sara looked up at him. She saw the same man from work: blue eyes, set mouth, and eyebrow raised in mocking question. But it was different, in a subtle manner. The eyes softened, the mouth relaxed, the shoulders dropped and he was no longer her boss, he was a man. A man torn between responsibility and desire. His eyes, those same blue eyes that had gazed into hers over a critical piece of evidence, dancing with their joy, now held a pain she'd never seen. It came at her with the silent trappings of a cold mist, lancing on her bare arms, chilling them and bringing goosebumps. She was caught in those eyes, their deep blueness pulling her, drawing her in, keeping her close. 

Then he crumpled, a slow movement of falling, first on one knee, then the other. His hands landed on her knees, bracing himself. All the while his eyes stayed on hers,keeping her there with him. Her arms unfolded and her hands touched his. They were trembling. Her hands could feel it as well as her legs. His fingers gripped her knees like a drowning man might grip a tossed life preserver. 

As she stared at him, mesmerized, she saw his bottom lip begin to tremble. He bit it, to still it and hide it. She touched his lips with her finger and he let it go. It was wet and she ran her finger along its wetness, still feeling the trembling and its softness. It was like touching a forbidden fruit. Her hand shook against his lip and his hand came up to press hers against this face. His eyes closed, lids dropping over eyes. 

She floated out of her body and regarded the couple below her, her hand on his face, him holding it there, crouching before her like a courting mate. She leaned into him, slowly bringing her face to mere inches from his. His jittery breath fanned her face, blowing tendrils of hair. With exquisite slowness, she brought her lips to his and touched them with hers. Like fiery pixie dust, the jolt burst through her body and she gasped. He was still trembling, still afraid but still there. With a (****) she never knew she possessed, she pressed in further, just wanting to feel him against her. 

A garbled sound came from his throat and she realized he was holding back a sob, quelling his burgeoning pain. She placed a hand on his face, fanned her fingers against his skin and held him to her, a gentle lover comforting another. His hands gripped her thighs, his body wracked with a hitching breath. Their lips held them together, two people just wanting to touch, to feel, to hold. His hands slid up her things to encase her waist as he brought himself to her, deepening the contact. Their arms encircled each other to hold on tight to their incipient passion. 

It was just a touch. Just a contact of lips. Skin on skin. And yet it held within it the promise, the seed of something bigger than either of them conjoined. The promise of doors creaking open, revealing beings of depth and desire. Walls dissipating in the heat of that one sought after connection. With bodies taut and strained, hands roaming roughly over fathomed skin, they declared unspoken vows so longed for since their first meeting. 

Slowly and with great effort, Grissom pulled away from Sara, his hands gliding down her body to return near their original place on her thighs. Her hands remained on his shoulders savouring his body's reactions. Their eyes floated open and they gazed at each other with a newfound sight and understanding. Fate had played a role in their lives, bringing them together, then apart and then together again, forging paths for them to follow, forks of decisions until finally the ultimate test was cast upon them with Sara's departure. Grissom had to go and find her, open himself and let her in. 

"I don't want to live without you," he whispered in a tremulous voice. 

"I don't either."

"Will you please come home?"

"Yes..."

And he smiled then, a glorious smile that lit his entire face and made his eyes shine like sapphires. 

~*~

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